


RickCon '18!

by Hoodoo



Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Autographs, Conventions, Cosplay, Deadpool Rick!, F/M, Game Room, Gen, Kidpool Morty!, Merchandise, Mild Language, Photo-ops, RICKCON '18, Wafer Cookies, badges, guests - Freeform, panels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-06
Updated: 2018-06-06
Packaged: 2019-05-19 02:44:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14865149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hoodoo/pseuds/Hoodoo
Summary: It's the annual Rick Sanchez convention!





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I have been remiss not to post this sooner.
> 
> Over on tumblr, ricksanchezbae said two words to me: "Imagine RickCon". I did, and they did, and we brainstormed, and thus RickCon '18 was concepted. Then it grew by other people writing an RickCon experience! Come join us!

Rick had brought you to the Citadel before. Quick visits, no “touristy” stuff, just whatever speedy errand he had to complete and you happened to be with him at the time.

But today-- _today!_

Today was special. Rick was a panelist at RickCon ‘18, and he decided to allow you to tag along. It had nothing to do with your begging and whinging about wanting to go, or the promises of blowjobs you made him. So you told yourself. He’d finally caved; that was the important part.

So now you were on the Citadel in a line that snaked seemingly forever back and forth between ropes waiting to get to the admissions booth for a ticket. 

Rick groused that he should have bought you a ticket online, but you pointed out you’d still have to stand in line anyway to get your con badge. He only gave you a dry look that you recognized as the one when you make a valid point he hadn’t thought of. 

Finally you were next. Rick took a quick sip from his flask.

When you were beckoned forward by the bored looking Rick at the next available booth, you hurried forward. Rick shouldered you out of the way so he made it there first. 

“Rick Sanchez, dimension G-88,” he belched at the admissions Rick. “I’m a p-panelist. She’s a guest.”

Admissions Rick didn’t look impressed. “A guest from where?”

“I told you, dipshit. G-88!”

“I need a DNA sample from you and her to verify.”

Rick held out his hand immediately, but you hadn’t been told about a DNA sample--

Rick grabbed your hand too. His grip was strong and unyielding. 

“Rick, what--”

“Don’t stick my middle finger, it’s my f-f-favorite!” Rick demanded, ignoring your question.

The Rick behind the desk rolled his eyes, and forced your hand into a flat device that looked like an appendage sized letter press. Rick stuck his hand into another. 

There was a tingling sensation, then a jab that resulted in a quick burst of pain, and then your hand was freed. You stuck your poked finger into your mouth and tasted a tiny amount of blood.

The admissions Rick studied his computer screen for a moment, while Rick grumbled again that he should have gotten you a ticket beforehand, because all this bullshit would have been taken care of during pre-registration. The Rick behind the desk didn’t bother hiding his eye roll at that either. 

Finally though, Rick’s dimension and your dimension were confirmed. Rick paid your admission. He was given a badge that he shoved in a pocket; you were given a plastic badge on a lanyard with “Rickcon ‘18: Weird Science!” printed on it, a booklet with a map of the convention center, a schedule of panels and events, and small blurbs about each panelist and celebrity Ricks who were ‘honored guests’, plus those ‘honored guests’ autograph and photograph schedules.

You thanked admissions Rick while you were flipping through the booklet, and turned away. 

“W-wait, baby,” admissions Rick said, stopping you.

Rick didn’t look too happy about the familiarity of the pet name, but the man behind at the booth stared him down and said, 

“I’m not pan, man, I’m fucking gay. She doesn’t do anything for me. Chill the fuck out.”

Rick sighed, and admissions Rick addressed you again. 

“You got your badge, but you need your wristband.”

Obligingly, even though it was unusual, you held your hand out again. 

Admissions Rick slapped a wide, tight, immobile cuff on it. The same tingling feeling engulfed your forearm, and there was another stab of pain that lingered. In a few seconds, the words “Rick Sanchez, G-88” were emblazoned on the cuff in bright neon green.

“This p-proves where you’re from. It’ll only come off with another sample of your Rick’s DNA, so no other Rick can . . . escort you away,” you were told in a bored tone. “For your own safety, you also can’t leave the convention center with it; the doors won’t open for you unless your Rick has his hand on it. Can’t have you wandering around the Citadel without your Rick.”

A thousand questions skip through your head: So basically the wristband was like a kid’s safety bracelet? What if there’s a fire? How would you get out if that happened? And these other Ricks, would they really try to . . . escort you without your permission? 

All that you manage to ask, however, is, 

“Another DNA sample?”

Admissions Rick smirks at you. “Y-yeah. He’ll need to pr-provide another drop of blood so you can remove it. There’s other ways to get a little DNA sample, if you two are into weird kinky shit. But it’s programmed for him alone. Now, I suppose other Ricks could beat the hell out of him and get some blood onto it that way, or cut off his fucking hand if they were really determined--”

Rick flips the guy off. “See? Told you it was my favorite finger,” he interrupts, and drags you away from the admissions booth.

Meekly you follow Rick into the entry hall and mount the long escalator to the main floor. You never did get your questions answered, although Rick tells you not to worry, all the other guests brought by Ricks and Mortys who aren’t living on the Citadel will be wearing the cuff too.


	2. Chapter 2

If you thought the line to get in was something . . .

The convention hall was _packed_ with Ricks and Mortys. Most of the Ricks look familiar, if not identical to your Rick, but you also see different hairstyles, and there are a couple you glimpse who are wildly different: a cyborg Rick and a Rick who is also a lion. There were some Summers too, and a few Morticias. On your tiptoes, you could see some other Rick-invited guests; you wondered if you had the same wide-eyed “deer in the headlights” look that they did.

Rick took you by the elbow and guided you to a spot by a pillar, for some breathing room.

He took the booklet from your hands to leaf through it while you gawped. 

“Look. _Look,”_ he said, pinching you lightly to gain your attention back from—was that a Rick dressed as Deadpool?!

Reluctantly—but thinking you were going to find and get a photo with that Deadpool Rick—you turn back to him.

“Here’s the r-r-room my panels will be in,” he tells you, pointing to the map. “I have one in an hour, and the other is at three-three-three o’clock. We can do lunch in between them, if you want. Not here though. The convention center charges way too fucking much for shitty food. 

“I’m gonna go find the panelists’ room and make sure they haven’t fucked up my requested set-up. Okay?”

A thrill of anxiety runs through you.

“You’re leaving me alone?”

He raises his eyebrows. “Yeah. You can-can go through the exhibition hall, or check out some of the other panels. There’s even a room dedicated specifically to Rick guests, if you want a break or meet other people . . .”

You’re still not completely sure about this, but Rick presses a wad of alien currency plus the guide booklet into your hand, assuring you you’ll be fine, have fun, kick any Rick in the balls if he gets handsy, see you in an hour. He even kisses you; you hear murmurs and the snap of photos being shot from other attendees. 

Rick grins at you, and in the same whirlwind that he told you all that, he’s gone.

The random Ricks and Mortys who’d been watching drifted away too.

“Okay! You can do this!” you whisper to yourself, in what you hope is courage but worry is bravado. 

You find the map in the guide book again and study it. The place is large, but it seems that they have lots of signs for things: exhibition hall, gaming room sponsored by Blips and Chitz™, the hallway where all rooms for the panels are being held, and those ‘quiet rooms’ that Rick mentioned: one for panelists, one for Mortys, and one for guests. 

There is a spread page of events, including the times they’ll be held. The list of panel topics is amazing:

_Ricks You’ve Never Heard Of: An Introduction_

_I Scream You Scream: The Ice Cream Panel_

_Disguising Your Alcohol Consumption_

_Rick C-137: Terrorick or Misunderstood Outlier?_

_Infinite Dimensions Or Just One Big Dream: Are You The Only Real Rick?_

_Morty Upgrades (Rick audience members only)_

_So Your Partner Thinks You Can Perform Like a Pornstar: Help and Advice for Keeping Them Satisfied--and Keeping Your Reputation! (Rick audience members only)_

_Mortys Writin’ Fanfic! (audience participation panel; Morty audience members only)_

_Let’s Talk Ball Fondlers_

_The Wafer Cookie Panel (sponsored by Simple Rick’s™)_

_New Designs in Lab Coats_

_Ovenless Brownies_

You note the times of the panels that interest you-- _Ricks You’ve Never Heard Of,_ the ice cream and wafer cookie ones—plus that your Rick’s that seem dry and boring compared to the most of the others: _Mapping the Sanchez Gene,_ and _Next Wave Cybernetic Implants._

Special guests—Novelist Rick, Cool Rick, someRick called D-99 “from the SEAL Team!”—are highlighted in yellow, along with the blocks of time they’re available for autographs and photos. In fine print it’s written that no one is allowed to line up more than 30 minutes before, two autographs per person, one photo per person, no hugging or ‘glomping’ on the guests allowed, but subtle groping was okay.

There’s also a page in the booklet that is dedicated to con rules, like: “cosplay doesn’t equal consent” and “just because that Morty looks like yours doesn’t make him yours” and “Rick invited guests are people too, the guest’s Rick has the total right to fuck you up if you mess with their guest” and the like. 

“Hey, you okay?”

When it dawns on you you’re being spoken to, you’re startled. “What?”

“Hey, easy,” the Rick in a cop uniform says, holding up his hands to show he’s no threat. It looks like he’s wearing a real police uniform, not cosplay, since the weapon in his holster isn’t peace-tied or tipped with orange. His badge reads D-598. “Just checking to make sure you’re okay.”

“I’m fine, Officer,” you say.

He must see that you’re still a little shell-shocked, because he doesn’t go away.

“Coming to the Citadel is disorienting for any non-Rick or Morty,” he opines, conversationally. “Coming to RickCon has to be worse. If you need a break from all this—“

He waves his hand to indicate the sea of Ricks and Mortys.

“—then the guest room is there for you. It’ll be quiet and a break from so many of us.”

“I just got here, but I’ll remember that. Thank you.”

“No problem. Here, take my card. Any problems you have here at the con and your Rick’s not around—“ You see him glance at your wristband. “—squeeze the insignia on the card and I get an alert. Okay?”

He hands you what looks like a business card with his name, dimension, and an embossed gold Citadel insignia. 

“It’s range is limited to the Citadel, so don’t worry about taking it off world.”

“Okay, thanks, Officer.”

“My pleasure. My girlfriend isn’t here, but I would want someone to watch out for her, so I watch out for guests like you. Have fun!”

The Cop Rick nods to you and wanders away through the crowd again.

Well? you say to yourself. Are you just going to stand here in the corner, or are you going to see what this con has to offer?

Giving yourself a shake, you start maneuvering through the crowd.


	3. Chapter 3

As he said it’s disorienting, being surrounded by an ocean of Ricks and Mortys. The boys either tag behind their Rick or run around in little gangs made up of mostly identical individuals. Some Ricks aren’t shy about looking you up and down, so you find yourself not-so-subtly running the opposite hand over your wristband, like it’s a talisman to ward them off. 

You’re naturally less suspicious of Mortys, so you let a current of them pull you along to the Exhibition Hall. The gangs of Mortys not attached to a Rick seem to be enjoying themselves. You see a few with hats that are knitted like Ricks’ hair, plus some in lab coats. One has gone all out: lab coat, blue spiky wig, age lines drawn on his face, and a flask. Cosplaying Rick seems to be a pretty easy thing to do. 

You hurry and stalk the Morty dressed most like a Rick and when you finally catch up to him, you ask for a photo. He has a smear of vaguely greenish makeup on his chin that substitutes for drool. You compliment him on the attention to detail. He grins and another Morty snaps a photo of the two of you.

He’s called away by another group of the boys who hoot and holler at his costume.

Inside this new room, vendors have booth set up throughout. You wander the aisles, the weird money Rick gave you burning a hole in your pocket. You’re not sure what to buy, however; there is just so much!

One vendor is selling knock-off Miami Rick sunglasses—you can tell they’re bootleg because the colors are reversed: blue on top fading down to pink, instead of the opposite. A couple booths have Rick plushies. There are decks of collectable cards with different Ricks on each one, like cards from Chocolate Frogs in the Harry Potter books, but you know better than to say that comparison out loud. Another collection of cards featuring Ricks is more like a battle game, like what you know of Magic: the Gathering.

You pick up a deck of what are now in your mind the Chocolate Frog cards and purchase them.

There are plastic portal guns toys. Keychains. Figurines. Dakimakura pillows with a wide selection of Ricks printed on them, in sexy poses. There are so many booths selling the knit “Rick hair” hats. One booth is piled high with wafer cookies in different flavors. The proprietor tells you he travels across dimensions to pick up flavors not available everywhere else, including durian, double-salt licorice, rose water, matcha, and strawberry basil. You’re offered sample bites, and discover each are imbued with something that subtly changes your mood: peace, joy, hope, relaxation, and acceptance. 

Even if you don’t quite understand what that may mean, he’s sold you. You buy a variety pack.

You suddenly realize the time. You have only a few minutes to get to the room your Rick is hosting his first panel, the one about genetics. Quickly, you slip through the crowd. It’s not incredibly difficult, although occasionally you’re called to and a couple of times you feel a hand on your ass; you keep your head down and just maneuver around and through the multitude of Ricks and Mortys. Having a determined mind-set seems to help.

You make it to the correct lecture room with a minute to spare. 

You’re the only non-Rick in attendance; you take a seat near the back and ignore the incredulous scowling looks from the other audience members. 

Some of the slides in the lecture are okay, but the material itself is pretty boring. Most of it is over your head. Quietly, you snap the plastic off the box of your new set of cards and begin to go through them. 

Each card has the photo of a Rick on one side, and a brief bio on the back. Most of them you have no clue about, so it’s interesting to read about them. One is someone you think you’ve heard of—D-99?—but for the life of you you can’t remember how you may have heard of him.

Your quiet inspection of cards is interrupted by an outburst from someone in the crowd.

A Rick from the audience apparently disagrees with whatever your Rick has said. Your Rick spits something back--not scientific to bolster his position on the subject, but an insult about the other Rick’s mother--and a huge shouting match begins that pulls other audience members into it, supporting whichever side of the argument they agree with. 

The whole rest of the panel is chaos. 

You sit, pressed against the wall, and try to remain as inconspicuous as possible. 

When the hour is up, the fight is stopped and Ricks shuffle out. There is some grumbling, but overall the mood isn’t as angry as you’d have expected from what you’ve just witnessed. 

Your Rick gathers his things; you skip to the front of the room to help him. He’s interrupted by a few audience members, who want to go into more depth about his research. 

The small group of them gets into a discussion, which is broken up by a RickCon staff member who tells them, 

“We need this room for another p-panel, assholes! Go jerk each other off in the hallway! Get the fuck out!”

That moves everyone along.

Rick’s so invested in whatever they’re talking about he barely acknowledges you. You wait, shifting from foot to foot impatiently, until it appears they’re talking about continuing the conversation at a local bar. He suddenly seems to realize you’re next to him.

“Baby! Me and these guys were heading out for a-a d-drink—I still have some time before my next panel. You-you need some more cash?”

You don’t, but you also don’t tell him no. He hands over more, and you hear one of the other Ricks mutter something about your Rick being pussy-whipped, which is countered by another that he’s a pushover sugar daddy. You ignore them all, with the exception of flipping them off as you smile sweetly up at your Rick. 

You also plant a heavy kiss on him, which he wasn’t expecting.

Once it’s done, you wipe the back of your hand across your mouth indecently and you glance up and down your Rick’s group of followers. You let your eyes linger on their crotches, which you know they notice. 

You make a show of dragging your fingers over your Rick’s chest as you walk away. You’d never have the courage to do it if your Rick wasn’t present, but messing around with other Ricks was fun. So you won’t get lunch with him? That’s fine. There’s plenty to do here. 

You hear one of them muttering about how much of a tease you are, and another saying how fun you must be in the sack. It makes you float a little, hearing how jealous they must be of your Rick.


	4. Chapter 4

Hungry, you search through the guidebook’s map for the nearest food vendor. You purchase an overpriced mound of french fries and settle on the floor with your back to a wall to eat them, watching the parade of Ricks and Mortys go by. For the most part, they ignore you. Some, however, take your photo on what they think is the sly.

You’re not cosplaying. You have no idea why they’d want your photo; you’ll have to ask Rick about it later. 

Wiping your greasy fingers on your jeans, you open up your guidebook again. You figure you can sit through the ice cream panel. The _Wafer Cookie_ panel is a little later, and if you don’t like it, the Ricks You’ve Never Heard Of one starts midway through so you can always slip out and attend it instead. 

Your eyes skim down the page and land on D-99.

Ah ha! That’s where you’d read the designation before!

He has an autograph line starting in twenty minutes! Because you have his card, you decide that you should see if you can get it autographed. 

Standing, you dump the remainder of your fries into the nearest trash can and hurry back to the Exhibition Hall. Following the overhead signs, you scoot into the line ahead of a pack of Mortys who are wearing blue mohawks instead of the standard wig of spiky hair. 

A staff member walks down the line of waiting attendees, shouting to remember this is an autograph line, assholes, no pictures allowed!

There are lots of Ricks in the line too, and their height makes it difficult to see the table you’re heading towards. Eventually, though, you’re close enough to see the Rick you’re getting an autograph from. His hair is most visible, of course, but you also catch glimpses of his uniform. He’s apparently allowed to carry weapons here too, since you can count at least two knives strapped to his limbs, and a gun in a holster on his belt.

You shuffle your deck of cards to find D-99’s as you near the table. 

He looks bored at the multitude of starstruck Mortys and his virtual twins that he’s signing for, but sits a little straighter when he catches sight of you a couple people back. When you approach the table, he actually stands up.

“H-hey, babydoll,” he greets, holding his hand out to you.

You’re suddenly as starstruck as all the rest seem to be.

He seems to recognize it and laughs. He slips an arm around your waist to pull you closer and whispers, “It’s okay, babydoll—I get it all the time. You want me to sign your tits?”

You laugh weakly and stammer something about no, you’d eventually have to wash it off.

“You think we don’t have ink that’ll never wash away?” D-99 asks you seriously, but with raised eyebrows and a half-grin. 

The idea of pulling down the collar of your shirt to expose your boobs--or more scandalously, pulling your shirt _up--_ and being basically tattooed with this Rick’s designation sends a bit of a thrill through your core, but rationally, you laugh again and beg off. 

He shrugs. “Your loss.”

Still standing, he plucks the card you’d momentarily forgotten out of your fingers and signs it with a flourish. Standing so close, you study his hair; he’s managed to spike it into the impressive mohawk, but it doesn’t look stiff with product. 

“Can I touch your head?” you blurt out.

D-99 flicks a glance at you. 

“Which one?” he quips, but even as you blush at the implication he tells you, “I’m j-joking.”

You sigh in relief.

He continues, with a wink, “You can touch both, babydoll.”

That embarrassment rushes back and you squeeze his upper arm as you laugh. He dips his head and you slip your hand over the shaved side and just a little through his hair. Like it looks, it’s soft and springy but bounces back into shape when you’re done carding your fingers through it. 

“That felt nice. Now I can imagine your fingers other places too,” he whispers lewdly, for you alone. Then, in a more normal volume, he says, “Let’s take a photo. Then you’ll have something to look at when you’re touching yourself—“

You laugh again, but juggle your phone out. That causes some unhappy murmuring from the line still behind you. 

“No photos!” somebody shouts angrily. 

“Suck my dick!” D-99 shouts back, and for a second you worry that this line is going to erupt into the same kind of shouting match you witnessed during your Rick’s lecture, with you in the epicenter of it. 

But whether it’s because D-99 has more authority over the crowd or because he’s packing hot weapons, they all settle down again and you get the selfie with him. You still hear mutters of “lucky” and “fake Rick girls” and “must be nice to get all the pussy” but you’re used to that sort of thing now, and brush it off. 

D-99 pats you on the ass as you skip away, and you can’t stop smiling.


	5. Chapter 5

It was a fun afternoon. 

You sat in on the ice cream panel, which ended up a little more technical than you expected but you did get some good information about the different types of milk that could be used, and the flavor differences they could impart on the final product. You made a note to ask your Rick to take you to an off world ice cream parlor so you could try some of the different alien flavors.

The wafer cookie panel made you a little sick to your stomach when the panelist went into the production process, and the plans the company had for the future. You slipped out of that one and seriously considered tossing the cookies you’d already bought into a garbage can. Looking at the package, however, you remembered how good the strawberry basil one was--acceptance--and decided to keep them. 

_The Ricks You’ve Never Heard Of_ is interesting. It’s attended mostly by orphaned Mortys, who seem to be keeping a tally of Ricks who may be looking for a grandson. You wish panel notes were given to the attendees so you could remember them all.

For a little bit you wandered around the game room. You watched some Mortys play the battle Rick card game that you’d seen for sale, and lots of other Mortys played the arcade-style games, but none of it was anything you were interested in.

You found the Rick dressed as Deadpool; actually there were two of them and you were able to get a photo with both of them separately, then together. One of them had a Morty with him, cosplaying a Kidpool, and he snapped the photo of the three of you. While you were handing your phone to Morty, the two Ricks conferred and didn’t tell you they were going to hoist you up so you were on their shoulders—one’s right shoulder, the other’s left; you shrieked in laughter and the picture Morty took was the widest smile you had that day.

There was also a steampunk Rick in a lab coat but with pinstriped trousers and a ruffled shirt, top hat and goggles, with lots of little glass vials hung from a leather belt. His Morty wore a waist cincher over his shirt, which was standard yellow but long-sleeved and with a subtle brocade pattern woven into it. Steampunk Rick agreed to have a photo taken with you, then extolled you on the use of steam dirigibles instead of the more common airships. You couldn’t tell if he was pulling your leg, or was really from a dimension where steampunk was reality.

You’re asked for photo ops too. So many Ricks, a few Mortys . . . most of them tell you their dimension and you try to remember them all, but you can’t. If you’d known how it was going to be, you’d have brought an autograph book, like you see some of the Rickless Mortys carry.

Your butt is patted so many times by Ricks you think it might be painful to sit down, but it’s a big ego boost too. It’s a compliment, here on the Citadel, although you know it wouldn’t have happened if your Rick was present.

Eventually you decide to take a break. There’s still a bit of time before your Rick’s second panel, so you make your way over to the guest’s quiet room.

A Morty cop is standing guard outside this room. He gives you a curt nod as you enter.

Inside is slightly dimmer and as advertised, much more quiet. There are upholstered chairs and two sofas, a table with light snacks and water, and a TV playing some game show that no one seems to be paying attention to. Several other women and one man are present, relaxing in the chairs. Some are chatting. 

“Look! He even gave us the recipe and small samples of the ingredients to make one batch of the ovenless brownies!” you hear someone gush. 

You glance over and see the woman is talking to another woman, who’s wristband has the longest dimension number on it you’ve seen today. A letter, numbers, a Greek symbol that—if you remember correctly—means Zeta, and another number; there’s barely enough room in the display window to show it all. 

“And then he segued into horticulture! It was so nice!”

“Yes,” the woman with the long dimension number agreed, “Zeta-7 is a delightful—“

Maybe you should have gone to that _Ovenless Brownies_ panel, you think. Walking further into the room, you can’t help eavesdropping on another conversations.

Another woman, who you recognize from the Exhibition Hall by her wristband number—625a—and her squealing over each cute little Rick keychain, cell phone charm, and bauble she found there, is sitting close to another guest, showing off all her finds. She’s wearing all sorts of Rick buttons and the other woman is exclaiming over some of the fanart she’d found and purchased. 

There’s another who looks more exotic: you can’t quite tell if the person is male or female, but they’ve definitely got some canine and caprine features, including horns and pretty goat eyes. They’re munching on some wafer cookies that you recognized from the packaging as durian flavored. The same guest wristband is cuffed on their wrist, but you can’t read the designation on it.

You take the only seat available, near a woman on the couch.

It feels nice to sit on something cushioned for a moment. You lay your head back on the cushions and sigh.

“Hi. Who’s your Rick?”

You pick up your head again and look over at the woman. She nods towards your wristband.

You hold it up to display the screen. “G-88.”

The woman looks thoughtful. “I don’t think I know him.”

You nod slowly, not sure how to interpret that. Then, because it’s polite, you ask her, “And your Rick?”

“Oh! It’s, uh . . .” She twists her arm around so her wrist is by her jaw and examines her wristband, then reads like it’s a surprise, “Rick K-6782b!”

That’s even harder to interpret. She doesn’t know her Rick?

She muses, “I probably oughtta find that guy so eventually I can get home . . .”

Then she shakes herself and asks brightly, “Your first time at RickCon?”

“Yes.”

“It’s pretty cool. It is your first time on the Citadel? Has your Rick brought you here for anything else?”

Half of you wants to just relax, half of you is okay with talking to someone non-Rick. The woman seems to sense this. 

“Oh, don’t mind me. I’m a bartender, so I’m just used to shooting the breeze.”

Then without waiting for you to answer the questions she’s already asked she launches into a story about how they set up this guest room and had to put a Morty cop outside because last year Miami Rick was a ‘special guest’ of the convention and he kept trying to sneak in. She was glad it was here because she loved Ricks— _loved_ them—but sometimes it was great to have a little breather, you know? 

One of her hands made a movement towards her crotch, which you could draw your own conclusions from but tactfully ignored. 

“What did you buy?” she asked, indicating the bag in your lap. 

“Well, all I got were some wafer cookies and a deck of the cards. I was lucky enough to get a D-99 card, so I went and got it autographed . . .” 

You shuffle the cards out and find it, and show it to her. 

“Oh, D-99! He’s a sweetheart!” the woman exclaimed. “Did he call you babydoll? He’s the doll.”

You laugh a little. “He offered to sign my boob.”

“Well, he’s more like a _sex_ doll, I guess,” she amends, laughing too. “Did you let him?”

“No!” You exclaim immediately, but lower your voice, though, to add, “I did ask to touch his head, and he let me . . .” 

“Which one?” she ribs, just like he had said. Then she lightly scolds, “You should have let him sign you! They don’t advertise it in the guidebook, but there’s one more private room they keep for Ricks and guests. If you’d have shown him your boob, you could’ve had a private little session with him, I bet . . .”

You laugh again, and feel yourself blush over the naughty implication. Through your laughter, you drop your voice and tell her, 

“I don’t think my Rick would have liked that very much!”

She shrugs. “You don’t know that. He might have loved watching you and D-99. Or maybe he’d have joined in!”

She gives you a grin, and you both laugh more. It’s nice to talk to someone who knows about Ricks and their quirks, without having to explain yourself like you’d have to with your friends back on Earth G-88.

Finally, though, you realize it’s getting close to three. You mention that you needed to go and catch your Rick’s panel. 

“Nice talking to you,” you say, as you get up.

“You too! If you ever want to talk again, occasionally people who’re with Ricks meet up at the bar I work in, once a month or so. It’s completely judgement free, and as long as the group is willing to buy enough drinks--alcoholic and non-alcoholic alike--to cover the spread of a night a Rick shows up, the management is willing to keep Ricks out for the evening. You should stop by sometime.”

The woman fishes a business card in her wallet and passes it over to you. 

You thank her again, tell her maybe you’ll find her bar sometime, and head back out of the room.


	6. Chapter 6

You find your Rick’s second panel room and take a place against a wall again. The room is near capacity; you never knew your Rick was so well-known for these types of scientific things. Maybe you should have bought a second pack of cards to read. You can’t hope to understand anything about the cybernetics he’s undoubtedly going to lecture on. 

This crowd is made up of the standard Ricks, plus some who have the bearing of doctors or nurses, and one wearing the same military outfit that D-99 had on. He’s also sporting a more military-style flattop, and when someone tries to take the seat beside him, he snarls something and the other Rick finds a new seat. When the military Rick turned his head, you see he’s wearing an eyepatch.

He sprawls across the two chairs he’s commandeered and sits with his arms crossed, staring your Rick down.

Oh god. You hope this panel isn’t going to end like the other one, but have a sinking feeling it will. 

At five past three, your Rick starts his lecture. Just like you were wishing against, it erupts into shouted counter arguments and accusations. Once again, you huddle against the wall. People are standing and shouting, one over another, trying to make points. Your Rick, who’s mic’ed, is loudest, but the din from the rest of the room is enough to overwhelm the enhancement. 

Suddenly, a loud, ear-piercing whistle breaks through and startles everyone enough to silence them.

The military Rick with the eyepatch is on his feet too. 

“Listen up, you cocksuckers!” he shouts. There’s enough command in his voice and presence that they do, for a moment. “All of you assholes—“ Here he points directly to individual, specific Ricks in the crowd. “—all of you so-called “doctors” have fucked up my eye so fucking much! You’re fucktards, and if this Rick has new ideas about how I can get my goddamn fucking eye back, _I want to hear it!_ So shut the fuck up, or I will shut you up!”

There’s some muttering that drifts through the crowd. Eyepatch Rick locks his eye on several of them, and isn’t shy about letting them see that he pops the snap on his holster as he rests his hand on his gun.   
You sink even further down in your seat along the wall, and hope you can get to the floor before all hell literally breaks loose. 

But he’s not challenged. There’s still grumbling and evil looks shot back to military Eyepatch Rick, but he ignores them and everyone settles down again. He’s the last one standing, looking over the group, but eventually he sits back down too with his arms crossed again, looking damn angry.

Your Rick doesn’t thank him, but continues his panel. Occasionally another Rick shouts out a counterpoint, but there is nowhere near the bedlam that happened earlier. Your Rick concludes his lecture and opens the floor to questions, which does push the envelope, but Eyepatch Rick, seemingly disgusted with whatever information your Rick presented, stands up and pushes his way passed the other Ricks to leave the room early.

Once again a staff member has to come in to kick everyone out.

You help Rick gather all his things and walk out with him, into the hallway.

“You look tired, baby,” he tells you. “Had enough of this shitshow?”

“Mmm-hmm,” you agree. You are exhausted, even though you know from the guidebook the con will be going strong until at least midnight. “But if we leave now, we’ll miss the masquerade and rave later!”

Rick makes a dismissive noise. “The masquerade is okay, I-I guess. Mostly just Ricks sh-showing off crazy homemade costumes, like lolita style and BSDM stuff. It’s not as fun now that they changed the rules and made it ‘safe for kids’, so Mortys could attend. Mortys seeing their grandpa’s junk was ‘traumatizing’, according to the Morty Social Services here on the Citadel.

“And the rave? That’ll be all M-Mortys jumping around under a strobe light. No thanks.” 

He’s so confident in his assessment of the two events you decide they’re fine to skip. He starts leading you through the crowd.

As you go, you ask, “Are all RickCon panels like that? I mean, I went to the ice cream one, and it didn’t devolve into shouting.”

“Yeah, th-they are,” Rick agrees, but doesn’t seem upset. “The scientific ones, at least. Fluff like the ice cream one—who can fucking argue about that? But corralling Ricks in a small room to talk about science? Yeah. The second one was the quietest I’ve ever been to, because of that SEAL Team Rick threatening to murder people.”

You nod, like that’s normal.

“Come on b-baby. Let’s get you home. You’ve probably had enough dealing with all these assholes.”

Once again, you agree. Rick herds you through the crowd; some random Ricks call out to you and wave. You return the waves, even if you don’t recognize most of them—they were the ones who asked you for photos, probably. Right?—and Rick gives you side-eye, but doesn’t comment on it. 

As instructed, he keeps his hand on your wristband and the doors open for you both. 

On the streets of the Citadel, he opens a portal and guides you through. 

Back home, he tells you to give him a second and he’ll spit on the wristband so it’ll open, but you tell him you want to wear it for a bit, like a souvenir. You wonder if the wristbands look different every year, and you can start keeping them, like a collection.

Rick scoffs at you but lets you keep it, and you relax the rest of the evening, thinking about everything that’d happened over the course of the day, telling Rick all about it. He wants to be bored with your stories, but he doesn’t tell you he doesn’t care or that he’d just like to watch TV, so you know that deep down, he’s glad you had fun too. 

You mention about wanting to attend RickCon ‘19, and joke that maybe you could do a panel specifically for non-Rick guests. He grunts a non-committal response to that, but the more you think about it, the better an idea it seems to be.  
You’re pretty sure people would attend. You’d better start making plans …

_fin!_


End file.
